Note: This piece was originally written back in 2003, continuing my hard luck story as an English teacher in Thailand.
So I show up at Inlingua this past Monday, ready to spread the gospel of i before e except after c The office impresses me. A long bank of clocks giving the time in different cities worldwide. Actually, that's the only thing that impresses me in the office; maybe I'm just a sucker for clocks. I'm wearing my brand new long sleeve white shirt from Gulati Tailors on Sukhumvit Road, with a dark blue necktie and gold plated tie clip. Black dress pants, of course.
My first class is a private tutoring session with a shy 8-year old girl. Did I say shy? I meant comatose. The Guinness World Book of Records needs to know that I asked her "What is your name" exactly five-thousand-eight-hundred-and-twenty times in less than two hours with no response. I used coloring books, sock puppets and wound up doing some All-Time Favorite Primary Hits to no avail. The little girl could give Marcel Marceau pointers. The minute class is over she runs out to her parents and begins chattering like a magpie.
Next is 'Joe', a 28-year old oilrig worker who likes to have English Conversation for three straight hours five times a week. His English is decent, and we get into an interesting discussion about the phrase "I'm pulling your leg". I have no idea where we get that saying in English; 'Joe' seems miffed that I can't explain it. I hear later he has complained about my ignorance to the Head Teacher.
I have several private tutoring classes with gorgeous Thai female college students. Their English is execrable; I tell them all, with a manly, attractive smile that their English is ravishing. Then comes my last class of the day; six little girls and boys who have spent all day in school and now have been dragged by their parents to another hour of class. I have to pull out the heavy artillery for these mini-juvenile delinquents. We review every animal known to man, and some that are made up just for the occasion, to use in Old McDonald's Farm. I'm hoarse, sweat is pouring from every orifice that decency allows me to mention, and yet there is still twenty eternal minutes stretching ahead of me in which to do something, anything, in English with these tykes.
"Draw me a picture of your house" I mutter, collapsing into my chair as the kids gnaw on their crayons like ghouls sucking marrow out of a corpse.
All in all, not a bad day.
Next day, however, all teachers are required to come in early to hear an announcement that Inlingua is consolidating its locations -- two locations are closing down, including mine. I will be welcome to apply for work at the other Inlingua locations, but am informed at the same time that the other locations won't hire anyone who doesn't have a college degree. As I boarded the skytrain that evening, drenched by monsoon rains, my shoes squelching sullenly, I could only repeat those immortal words of W.C. Fields apropos of my continuing miserable luck with teaching jobs: "There's an Ethiopian in the fuel supply."
My first class is a private tutoring session with a shy 8-year old girl. Did I say shy? I meant comatose. The Guinness World Book of Records needs to know that I asked her "What is your name" exactly five-thousand-eight-hundred-and-twenty times in less than two hours with no response. I used coloring books, sock puppets and wound up doing some All-Time Favorite Primary Hits to no avail. The little girl could give Marcel Marceau pointers. The minute class is over she runs out to her parents and begins chattering like a magpie.
Next is 'Joe', a 28-year old oilrig worker who likes to have English Conversation for three straight hours five times a week. His English is decent, and we get into an interesting discussion about the phrase "I'm pulling your leg". I have no idea where we get that saying in English; 'Joe' seems miffed that I can't explain it. I hear later he has complained about my ignorance to the Head Teacher.
I have several private tutoring classes with gorgeous Thai female college students. Their English is execrable; I tell them all, with a manly, attractive smile that their English is ravishing. Then comes my last class of the day; six little girls and boys who have spent all day in school and now have been dragged by their parents to another hour of class. I have to pull out the heavy artillery for these mini-juvenile delinquents. We review every animal known to man, and some that are made up just for the occasion, to use in Old McDonald's Farm. I'm hoarse, sweat is pouring from every orifice that decency allows me to mention, and yet there is still twenty eternal minutes stretching ahead of me in which to do something, anything, in English with these tykes.
"Draw me a picture of your house" I mutter, collapsing into my chair as the kids gnaw on their crayons like ghouls sucking marrow out of a corpse.
All in all, not a bad day.
Next day, however, all teachers are required to come in early to hear an announcement that Inlingua is consolidating its locations -- two locations are closing down, including mine. I will be welcome to apply for work at the other Inlingua locations, but am informed at the same time that the other locations won't hire anyone who doesn't have a college degree. As I boarded the skytrain that evening, drenched by monsoon rains, my shoes squelching sullenly, I could only repeat those immortal words of W.C. Fields apropos of my continuing miserable luck with teaching jobs: "There's an Ethiopian in the fuel supply."
No comments:
Post a Comment